


A Bowl of Fucking Cherries

by islasands



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Raw Eggs, Restaurants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 08:38:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islasands/pseuds/islasands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam is sick of having lovers who want more than he is prepared to give. Come to think of it, he's sick of every fucking man and his dog wanting more of him than he wants to give. Well, they can all go get fucked. WARNING Not for those who have an aversion to raw eggs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bowl of Fucking Cherries

Part 1

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” said one of his friends. Adam looked up. He had been teaching a lesson to the food on his plate, idly stabbing or squashing things with his fork. Why did he always choose food he didn’t particularly like? Why did other people make better choices than he did? He wanted what they had.  

He looked in the direction of his friend’s disapproving stare. Seated a few tables away two women were holding up their phones taking videos. It was late, and aside from Adam and his friends, the women were the last remaining restaurant patrons. Adam stared at them a moment then finished his glass of wine. He was already quite drunk. He heard one of his friends politely asking the women not to take photos or videos. He fished around in his jacket pocket, found his phone, and held it up, pointing in the direction of the women. They laughed, and called something out as they got up to leave.

Adam sighed. He looked around the table. It was great catching up with his friends, but looking at their animated faces, hearing their familiar banter and laughter, he decided he couldn’t really be fucked with them. Their talk covered the same old topics. What you wore, what you saw, what you thought, what you bought. At a certain point in life, he thought, you have nothing new to say. You run out of shit. From then on you simply repeat yourself, dressing up your thoughts in new clothes, new, better, and more fashionable outfits, as though that will disguise their tedium and vapidity. Tedium. This wine has plenty of that.

He beckoned to the wine waiter . He tapped the side of the wine bottle with his fork. “What is this shit?” he said, in a loud, stroppy  voice. His friends, all of a piece, were dumbstruck. The waiter quickly glanced at them, then back at Adam. He deferentially gave the name of the wine, its vintage and place of origin. Adam rolled his eyes at him. He screwed up his nose. “Well, it’s crap. Try it yourself.” He topped up his glass and held it up to the waiter. “You don’t want to? Good call, cuz it’s utter shite. I’d be better off sucking on a nozzle at a gas station. Who the fuck ordered it?” The waiter, eyebrows raised and eyes popping, reached out and deftly took the wine bottle from the table. ‘You did, sir,” he said quietly. “I did?” Adam said, breaking into an arch grin. “Then you should have stopped me. That’s your fucking job. No, leave it here. Leave it.” He snatched the bottle from the waiter and slammed it down on the table. “What?” he said to his friends. “What?”

“Will there be anything else, sir?” the waiter asked. Adam quaffed his wine, gulping loudly. He pouted at his friends. He wanted to tell them to stop gaping. It made them look stupid. “Yes, there is,’ he said belligerently. “Tell the chef that every single thing, - on my plate of _three_ things, - was lonely as fuck and missing its goddamn mother!”

“Very well, sir. May I take your plate?” the waiter said. With plate in hand he left the table.

Adam wagged his head at his friends. “As you were,” he said. “Don’t mind me.”

‘I’ve never seen you do that before,’ said the woman sitting closest to him.

"Do what?”

‘Well, - be rude like that. You’re never rude.”

Adam looked blearily at her earnest face. “Then meet the new me,” he said. He frowned. “Where’s that shit wine? Who the fuck drank _my_ wine? Apparently _I_ ordered that can of petrol and apparently _I_ have to drink it.”

“You finished it. Here, try this. What’s going on, Adam? What’s the matter?”

Adam took the proffered wine. He swirled it around in the glass. For a moment he tried to think of an answer but quickly became irritated by the effort it was taking. He leaned back on his chair, tipping it onto its back legs. When he thought about it, he was sick of the effort everything was taking in his life. He rocked the chair back onto its four legs and sat with his hands flat and outspread on the table, head down, wishing he could be bothered ripping the table cloth and all its contents off the table and onto the floor.

“Excuse me, but I was told you are most unhappy with the food I prepared.”

Adam looked up. He squinted at the chef.

“I want to know if there’s anything else I can make for you.” The chef made a conciliatory gesture with his hands. Adam stared at the hands. They were interesting hands, with crooked fingers and numerous scars. He returned his gaze to the chef’s face. Fuck, he was good looking. Olive skin, bossy looking mouth, big nose. He reminded Adam of someone. That actor with the big nose. Brodie. Someone Brodie. I’d like to fuck that face, he thought.

“Yes, there is,” he said. “I want you to bring me a bowl of cherries. You got any of those? I want a bowl of fucking cherries,” he scrunched up his face at the chef, “that I can fuck.”

The chef frowned down at him but Adam was undeterred. He had correctly assessed the slight movements at the corners of the chef’s attractive mouth.

‘My last fuck was a can of worms,” he explained. He looked inwardly at that statement and marvelled at how accurate it was.

“I just wanna have a turn at fucking a bowl of cherries. For a change.” He nodded  tipsily at the chef.

His friend looked up at the chef. “We’re a bit under the weather,” she said. Adam glared at her mitigating smile.

“He’s talking to _me_!” he said. “He gets it. Don’t you?” He looked up. His eyes narrowed when he met those of the chef.

“I most certainly do,” the chef said. “However, I ‘m sorry but we’re clean out of cherries. We were clean out of them a few months back. Come winter, cherries are hard to come by.”

“Well, what about a plum, then?” Adam said. “A big, fat, juicy, plum!”

The chef smiled down at him. “I’ll see what I can do, sir.” He tapped Adam’s shoulder, smiled politely at his friends, and returned to his kitchen.

“Come on, Adam. We're done here. Let’s go.” One by one his friends stood up. They variously made preparations to collectively pay the bill. But Adam refused to accompany them.

“Don’t pay. Let me pay. It’s my shout. I haven’t finished here. You go. You can all go.” He grinned up at their concerned faces. “Go on. I want you all to go. I want to be in this shitty restaurant _on my own_.”  Reluctantly, they left. They stood around outside the restaurant speculating on whether Adam was having a serious melt down. Adam, meanwhile, had been served  a shallow plate upon which a single, large dark purple plum sat in a tiny pool of its own juice.

‘Compliments of the chef,” the waiter said.

Adam smiled appreciatively at the glistening plum. He dipped his finger in the juice and sucked them thoughtfully. “Tell the chef I would like to thank him in person,” he said. “When I’m done. Or even before then.”

“I believe he would like that, sir” the waiter said.

Adam took his spoon and tried to slice off a sliver of plum. The plum neatly slid across the plate and plopped onto the table cloth. He picked it up and replaced it. He licked his fingers. He tried again, with the same result. He looked around the table for a fork. There wasn’t one. Adam held the plum with his left hand and applied the spoon with his right. “Keep still, you little fucker,” he said sternly.

“Why don’t you just put the whole thing in your mouth,” a voice said.

The chef pulled up a chair and sat next to him.

Adam eyed him sideways and then eyed the plum. “That’s a big fucking plum,”he said.

The chef carefully picked up the plum between two fingers, and shook it so that it would not drip any juice. He held it up. Adam was ready for a game. He opened his mouth as wide as possible and stuck out his tongue. The chef nudged the plum into his mouth. He wiped his hand on a napkin and watched Adam make a show of gagging on the plum. Some red juice trickled out of the corner of his mouth. The chef dabbed it with the napkin. Adam chewed for a while. While he chewed he scrunched up his eyes, making ‘mmm’ noises. It was nearly all gone. The chef, unsmiling, held his hand out to him, palm facing up, and Adam took it by the wrist, placed the palm beneath his lips, and slowly spat the stone into it.

Their eyes met.

Part 2

The chef abruptly stood up, reached down and grabbed the back of Adam’s shirt, and hauled him out of his chair. They grappled with one another like competing thieves who had made the fatal error of stealing from each other. Chairs fell, tables were moved, clothes were discarded. By the time they hurtled through the swinging doors into the restaurant kitchen they were near naked. The bright lights of the kitchen dazzled them. They paused, looked at each other, and burst out laughing.

“Richard,” said Richard, holding up his hand, while not releasing his grip around Adam’s waist. “Adam”, Adam said, taking the hand. They shook hands, leaning back slightly to make enough room between their chests. They sealed the introduction with a kiss that was now more thirsty than burning.

“I want to plate you up, baby.” Richard unbuckled Adam’s belt and unzipped his fly. “Jesus,” he said. “That’s a prime fucking cut. Follow me.”

He took Adam’s hand and led him to the store room. The walls were covered with shelves and storage cabinets. On the floor there were crates and cartons. Along one wall there was a waist high, narrow wooden bench, strewn with collections of foodstuffs. Richard looked at Adam.

“Don’t you move,” he said. “Especially, don’t _you_ fucking move,” he added, looking at Adam’s cock which was where he had left it, sticking out of his jeans pushed up by the band of his underwear.

“I’m hungry,” Adam said, looking down at himself while taking a deep sniff of the food smells. “I’ve had fuck all to eat, you know.”

Richard wheeled around. “You rude bastard,” he said. “If you weren’t so pretty I’d fucking throw rocks at you! Get up on here, cheeky bastard. No. Take your pants off first.” He roughly took over yanking his pants down.

“Up you get, doll. Holy fuck!”

Adam sat on the bench. He too looked at his cock and frowned as though wondering where it had come from. Richard put his hands on his hips and surveyed Adam’s body. Adam looked up at him. “What now, chef? Are you gonna cock me up the way you cocked up my dinner? Fucking fusion. It’s all bullshit! Fuck you’ve got a big sexy nose. I want you to stick that nose right up my arse!” Adam began to laugh uncontrollably.

Richard widened his eyes at him in disbelief. He bent down and reached underneath the bench. He found what he wanted.

‘You like eggs, don’t you,” he said, as he deftly broke an egg from hand into the other. He held the egg up and let its white strain through his fingers.

“You can shut the fuck up,” he said. "You're a boorish, undeducated, piece of rude shit." He held the golden globe under Adam’s nose. “If this breaks, in your mouth, I am not going to fuck you. I’m gonna send you packing.” Adam stared at the glistening yolk. “Open,” Richard commanded. “That’s not fair,” Adam protested. But already he wanted the yolk in his mouth. In fact, he wanted it desperately. He opened his mouth. His tongue quivered from anxiety. Richard gently let the golden ball slip inside. “You bitch,” he said, “you beautiful fucking bitch. You better not ruin my night.” Keeping his eyes on Adam’s eyes, he slid down his hand and grabbed Adam’s cock, gripping it like a lever. Adam made a noise in the back of his throat. His groin was set alight but he was tense with trying to preserve the integrity of the yolk. He could feel its swollen vulnerability on his trembling tongue. He dug his fingers into Richard’s back.

Richard gripped the table and bent down to Adam’s cock. He removed Adam’s hand so that it sprang free, jerking in the air, and moved his face around so that he could feel it against his cheeks. He brushed it with his lips. Adam had closed his eyes. The feeling of Richard’s hair against his thighs and abdomen, the looming weight of his head, the proximity of his mouth and its wet interior were insanely arousing. He tried to take hold of Richard’s head but he ducked and twisted away.

Richard brought his face close to his. “Now pass it to me,’ he said, placing his open mouth against Adam’s. Adam tilted his head so that the egg floated into Richard’s mouth. Richard put his hand behind Adam’s head, so that he couldn’t pull back. He took a handful of Adam’s hair and tilted his head back so that he could let the yolk slip back into Adam’s mouth. And all the while he was manipulating Adam’s cock. Adam’s teeth and throat ached with needing to bite and swallow. He knew that any moment he was going to give in. His tongue was trembling. The press of Richard’s nose was so sexual he clenched his buttocks. He was burning up.

He put his hands over Richard’s in an effort to delay the inevitable. Richard smiled against his open mouth. “Oh, baby,” he said. Adam let the yoke spill from his lips and Richard bit into it, breaking it between their lips. Their tongues were freed. Their lips massaged each other with the yolk’s silkiness.

“Lie down,” Richard said. “I said I wanted to plate you up.” He manhandled Adam into a lying position. Adam put his hands behind his head. He was breathing hard. Released from the tension of the egg exchange, released from the kiss that been so arousing it was like a kind of anguish, he felt supremely in charge. His nostrils flared. His lips pouted. He waited to see what this gorgeous fucking man was going to do next. His bad mood had been liberating. He was entranced by Richard’s nose. He began to giggle. He felt he was the luckiest man alive and all on account of that man’s nose.

“Plate me then, mother-fucker,” he said complacently.

Richard took a bottle of oil and thoughtfully drizzled it up and down his body. Adam watched, half amused and half pleased by the idea of being someone’s dinner. Richard pulled out a drawer and made his selection. He held up a spatula and tested its floppiness.

He tested the spatula on Adam’s abdomen. He deftly slid it up to his chest, flipped it and slid it back. He continued adding oil and smearing him firmly with the spatula, applying it to his inner thighs, the soles of his feet, his nipples, his throat, his armpits, the long sides of his torso. And Adam shuddered every time it passed close to his cock.

“When you’re plating up you’re not merely _arranging_ food.” He bent over and sucked at each nipple. ‘Any more than a composer simply arranges notes.” He slid his face down his torso, right down to his groin. Adam lifted his buttocks from the bench but Richard pushed his hips back down. “Even if all I was plating up was a fucking egg – God, I want this so bad.” He ran the spatula up Adam’s cock.

He reached down and took an egg from the cartons that were stacked beneath the bench. Adam watched as Richard held his cock with one hand and then broke an egg over its tip. They both stared as the yolk spread over the head of his cock and ran down the sides. Adam jolted at the coolness of the yolk, and then at the heat of Richard’s mouth as it closed over him, and at his hands sliding over his body, taking in his nipples, his inner thighs, and sliding up to stroke and push inside his anus.

 _To be continued..._


End file.
